


Kick Start

by Juxtaposie



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Gift Giving, Romantic Fluff, betty just wants him to be happy, can gearhead Betty be more of a thing?, can we please just all be nice to Jughead, that poor kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juxtaposie/pseuds/Juxtaposie
Summary: Betty finally convinces Jughead to take a gift from her.





	Kick Start

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even sure where this came from. We mainlined the show in 11 hours with some friends, and then, predictably, I came out the other side as Bughead trash.

It's not quite their one-year anniversary when Betty knocks his heart right out of his chest. He highly suspects that she's had it all along, tucked into the pocket of one of her button-ups where she can keep it close to her own, but if he’s ever had any doubts, this confirms it. Whatever happens, from here on in, for the rest of his life, she's the one. He knows they're young, but neither of them are naive, and he feels lucky, suddenly, to be looking foward to what might potentially be a very long and happy life with the girl he desperately, all-consumingly loves. 

She knocks his heart right out of his chest, and she does it with an old motor-bike. 

"Well," she says expectantly when he remains silent, waving her hands again like Vanna White. "What do you think?"

A little part of him wants to be mad at her, and he knows that if he doesn't knock it down now his pride will get the better of them both. His jaw tightens at just the thought. 

"Betty," he says slowly. "You... you _really_ shouldn't have."

She's grinning despite his warning tone, but her summer sunlight smile dims into something gentler and she takes his hand. 

"I knew you'd say that," she offers, lifting their clasped hands to her mouth so she can brush a kiss over his knuckles. "So I have to start by telling you it doesn't run. My dad had some old stuff to trade at the junkyard, and I threw in my old laptop and - voila!"

This knowledge does ease the tight tangle of emotions in his chest, but, "If it doesn't run..."

She turns away from him, suddenly shy, and drops his hand to sidle over to the bike, running her fingers across a tear in one of the leather grips. "I miss you," she says, not meeting his eyes. "The Southside is a long way to walk every day, or even every other day, and school is getting crazy, and my mom keeps trying to sabotage all my attempts to borrow the car, so I just- I thought-"

There's a long, alarming second where he thinks she's going to cry, but then she turns back to face him and the only thing shining in her eyes is love. 

"I thought maybe we could work on it. Together." 

It's a statement, but she says it more like a question, and his feet move on their own. She smiles, bright and alive, then shimmies backwards until she's sitting side-saddle on the bike, laughing a little. She reaches for him, hands fisting in the front of his open flannel to pull him in close between her parted knees. His hands find her face, and he kisses her soundly, deep and hungry, but beyond anything else - happy. Just happy. 

She hooks one leg around him, pulling him flush against her. The bike wobbles a little but doesn't fall over, and his heart skips a beat when she laughs into his mouth.

"I don't have a license," he says, still smiling while he peppers her face with short, sweet kisses. 

"Mr. Andrews is going to help you pay for one for your next birthday," she retorts, fingernails scratching gently at the material of his shirt.

"I don't know the first thing about fixing up a bike," he continues, hands tangling in her hair. 

She laughs, her other leg coming up around him, thighs pressed tight against his hips. "I've been helping my dad fix cars since I was old enough to hold a flashlight. And," she says, breaking away long enough to shrug a shoulder toward the tote bag laying near them in the dirt, "I bought a manual about this model on ebay. Twelve dollars with shipping."

His smile is so big he thinks he face might split in two. He presses his forehead to hers. "Parts. Gotta be expensive."

Her arms wind around his shoulders, pressing their heartbeats together. "That’s what the junkyard is for."

"Am I even old enough for a motorcycle license?" he whispers.

"Less than 250 cubic centimeter piston displacement." Her voice is low and breathless. She hooks her ankles together behind his back. "This one's just fine."

"Do _you_ know what that means?" he asks, breath coming faster.

"Sort of," she says vaguely, before kissing him hard. Her fingers splay across his shoulder blades, holding him against her. He leans into her, wanting to be closer. His arms lock around her waist, and it's still not close enough. There's too much clothing, and not enough her, and for one crazy second, he wishes he could separate his atoms and slide them in with hers where everything is dark and warm and _Betty_ -

-and the bike tips over beneath them.

Jughead is quick enough to keep them from falling on top of it, but not to keep them from falling altogether. Horribly conscious of the fact that he'll break one or both of Betty's ankles if he comes down on top of them, he doesn't so much fall backwards as stumble. She makes a noise he's never heard before, some hilarious mixture of a squawk and a yell, and lets go of his shoulders as he sits down hard in the gravel. He takes most of the weight on the first landing but their combined momentum lays him out flat. Betty's knees land hard on either side of his waist, and she just manages to catch herself on her hands before her stomach can collide with his face. 

They lay there for a second, each catching their breath, and that's when Jughead notices the loud banging coming from the window of the trailer across the way. He turns his head, already knowing what he's going to see: the neighbor’s four kids, all boys, knocking on the glass of their bedroom window. They're hooting and catcalling, and the older two, who are teenagers, are making rude gestures at him and Betty. 

“Smooth, Jones,” he mutters, covering his eyes with one hand. “Real smooth.” 

"Have they been there the whole time?" she hisses, cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of pink.

"Probably," he answers, groaning as he sits up. Betty mirrors the motion, sitting back on her heels to keep the weight off his stomach, then grimaces at the sight of her hands. They're not scraped, but they're raw and red. She climbs off of him and starts to pick out the gravel. 

"You okay?" she asks when he doesn't stand. The kids get bored once they realize Betty probably isn't going to flash them, and the banging stops. 

"Yeah," he says after a moment. "Just trying to-" He can't stop the groan that escapes him as he stands. "Just trying to decide if i shattered my coccyx on t- I'm kidding, Betty. Kidding. You survive the crash?"

"Honestly, I think the bike probably took the most of it," she says. She moves to right it, but he rushes in to do it for her, and realizes the reason they'd gone down in the first place. The kickstand, already rusted, and possibly original, has snapped right off. 

"Well," she says, dusting off the knees of her jeans. "At least we know where to start."

He goes to lean it against the porch, but then freezes when something else occurs to him. 

"Betty," he says, not sure if he's ashamed, or just amused at the absurdity of the last ten minutes. 

She hums at him in response, eyes wide. 

"... I don't know how to ride a bike."

She laughs, deep and full, and he decides he is definitely the latter.


End file.
